Window 89 Direct

They call it “Window 89” in my memory because that was the year I lost three things: a job, a love, and an illusion of control. In that order.

Before I left that apartment (rent hike, of course), I took a photo through Window 89 one last time. The frame is slightly warped, the screen torn in the lower right corner. In the picture, a single cloud hangs over the water tower like a comma—a sentence unfinished. window 89

Window 89 didn’t fix me. But it reminded me that the world keeps moving, and that’s not cruelty—that’s permission. They call it “Window 89” in my memory

I don’t live there anymore. But sometimes, on a Tuesday in October, I’ll walk two blocks out of my way just to look up at the ninth floor. The window is still there. The paint-chipped “89” is still visible if you squint. The frame is slightly warped, the screen torn

There’s a specific kind of silence that only exists before sunrise in a city that never sleeps. I first heard it on a Tuesday morning in late October, standing at Window 89.